


a record of statistically improbable occurrences between two strangers

by santiagone



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 1930s-1940s ish, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Fluff, Jealousy, Pining, THE WHOLE DEAL, Trains, i mean sorta growing up together im rubbish at tagging, well sorta anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6399385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santiagone/pseuds/santiagone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re just two strangers on a train. No big deal.</p><p>(Except it is, because his eyes are blue and his smile is crooked and with every chance-encountered train journey, Jemma Simmons falls a little bit more in love with Leopold Fitz.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the beginning (or; a series of unfortunate family names beginning with L)

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be very honest: I know pretty much nothing about history whatsoever. But I really wanted to try my hand at something new, challenge myself a little, and so here we are! I haven't really picked an allotted time slot for it, maybe 1930s or 1940s-ish? I got most of my inspiration from Narnia and Famous Five, so that's the kind of vibe I'm going for -- however, feel free to imagine it in whatever way you'd like!

**_one_.**

 

Their story begins with a faulty train, a new notebook, and two strangers.

She’s only fifteen, but she has big dreams and hopes and aspirations, and she plans to keep them all bottled up in this new, crisp paper notebook; plans to have it filled with ink blots and scribbled words and swirling doodles by the end of the year.

She’s going to be a writer, she tells anybody who’s willing to listen. She’s going to weave stories beyond all realm of imagination, stories of myth and danger and adventure, but not love, never love. She doesn’t believe in love. This novel is going to be bold and brilliant and beautiful, and it is not going to hold a trace of love in it.

She finds the perfect opportunity to begin her diary when the train breaks down on the way to her grandparent’s place. She’s more or less alone; the noisy pair of elderly women have just departed to complain to whomever happens to be in charge, and the boy across from her is asleep, his features smushed up against the window. She’d laugh, but that would be rude, and the Simmons’ have always been a polite lot, so instead she tucks her feet up and leans her back against the window, notebook propped up on her lap and pen hovering near her mouth.

 _Dear Diary,  
_ _Today I.._

She pauses, stumped. She’s only written four words, and she’s already stuck. Then again, nothing particularly interesting has happened to her as of today, unless she wants to go into a particularly detailed description of the awkward farewells of her poised father and sister. Which she doesn’t.

While she’s pondering this, the boy across from her stirs, rubs at his eyes and squints at her.

“What’s that?”

Jemma turns, slightly surprised, but not entirely taken aback.

“A notebook,” she answers deftly, her nose wrinkled, and if she could see her reflection she’d realise she looks just like her mother. “You’ve been.. ah, there’s saliva..”

She gestures awkwardly, but the boy only wipes the drool off his chin without much preamble.

“What are you doing with a notebook?” he continues curiously.

“Why, writing, of course. What else?”

“Well, what about drawing?”

She frowns at him, but now she’s the one with her curiosity peaked. “ _Drawing_?”

“Mhmm.” He nods eagerly. “You know, with a pen or pencil, creating art—you can make figures, doodles, anything you’d like.”

“I’m _well_ aware what drawing is.”

“Well, now you know even more so,” he points out, grinning cheekily, and she wants desperately to write him a better personality. Or a handsomer face. Or perhaps conjure a brush with words, so that he might be able to tame his messy curls.

She’s still debating on ways to improve him if he were a character in her book when he asks, “Why have we stopped?”

“The train’s broken down,” she answers promptly, pleased to be more knowledgeable.

He blinks. “Why?”

Jemma has to refuse the urge to huff at him. Instead, she composes herself and pats down her dress.

“How should I know? All that needs to be said is that the train has broken down, and that perhaps we might be a bit delayed in the meantime.” She returns to her book to signify the conversation is over, and for a blissful few moments she thinks it might have worked.

“I like your pigtails.”

Her fingers go automatically to the ribbons in her hair. “They’re plaits.”

“Sorry.” He falls silent for a while. “Aren’t you going to say thank you?”

“I was getting around to that,” she snaps.

“Alright, Simmons.”

Jemma bristles, sitting up in such alarm that her notebook promptly slides off her lap.

“How on Earth do you know my last name? Has my uncle sent you? Because I’ve told him that I’m perfectly fine catching the train by myself. He needn’t send a chauffeur, especially ones like you.”

The boy looks affronted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her eyes gleam in triumph. “So you _do_ work for Uncle Phillip!”

“No!” the boy replies, shaking his head earnestly. “I’ve no clue who your uncle is, honest. I just saw your name on your notebook.”

He points, and she follows his gaze down to the floor, where the book does indeed read _Property of J. Simmons_.

She spares a few moments to glare at him for a little while longer, snatches the notebook off the floor, and then eventually relaxes back into her seat.

“Alright. I _suppose_ I can trust you.”

The boy grins again, all white teeth and cheekiness, and she doesn’t return the smile but thinks she might feel a little less threatened by him. Only a _little_ less, mind you.

“‘Course you can trust me. _Everybody_ trusts me.” She raises her eyebrows at that, but doesn’t say anything, so he continues. “What does it stand for, then? The J, I mean. What’s your first name?”

Jemma smiles then, a mix between smug and victorious. “I could hardly tell you that. You’ll have to guess, Mr…” She eyes the case propped next to his feet, “Mr. T. Fitz.”

“Those are my father’s initials. You’ll have to guess my first name too,” he announces, and she frowns at him.

“That’s hardly fair! You have the first initial of _my_ name.”

Fitz (for that’s what she’s decided to call him now)  seems to ponder this for a moment. “Alright,” he decides finally. “It’s L. For the sake of fairness.”

“Lawrence?” she guesses.

Fitz wrinkles his nose. “No. Lawrence is a terrible name.”

“My grandfather is called Lawrence!” she protests. “Your guess, then. I bet you won’t be able to find mine.”

He’s quiet for a considerable amount of time, eyes narrowed, zoned in on her face, and she’d shift around in uncomfort if she weren’t so damn stubborn.

“Jessica?” he tries eventually, and she brightens.

“No. Lyall?”

“Where are all these ridiculous names coming from? _No_.”

“That’s my great uncle’s name!”

“Your family has a terrible history of naming.”

And so they continue more or less in this fashion, throwing names back and forth, until he forgets about his nap and she forgets about her notebook. When the elderly women return from their complaining, Jemma and Fitz intentionally raise their voices, louder and louder until the women finally exchange twin looks of sour disgust and take their gossiping elsewhere, leaving them gasping for breath in bouts of laughter.

“They looked so _affronted_!” Jemma manages, one hand clutching her stomach, the other over her mouth in all politeness.

“They probably thought we were talking about them,” Fitz adds, and they dissolve into giggles again.

Eventually, the train draws to a stop (she can’t even recall exactly when the train had been fixed), and to her surprise both Fitz and Jemma reach for their bags at the same time.

“You’re getting off here?” she asks, thoroughly surprised.

Fitz ducks his head. “Yeah. I’m.. A friend of my mother’s works in town. With cars and the sort. He’s going to teach me about them.”

“Hmm,” is all she says, although really, she’s thoroughly impressed. They both duck out of the compartment and along the hallway until they’re spilling out onto the hustle of the station.

“What about you?” he yells, barely heard above all the chattering and the sharp whistle as the train begins to pull out once again. Jemma clutches onto her case tightly and hugs her notebook to herself with her other.

“I’m staying with my grandparents,” she shouts back, blinking rapidly as her plaits whip at her cheek. “My mother’s too sick to look after me at the moment.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. “It’s alright. She’s been ill for as long as I can remember. Does a mother still count as a mother if all she does is lie in bed all day?”

“‘Course,” Fitz answers, like that’s the only answer. “She’s your mum. That’s how it works. Besides, s’not her fault she can’t get up.”

“I suppose.” Although she doesn’t, not really.

Fitz brightens suddenly, glancing off into the distance. “There’s Mr. Mackenzie! I have to go, Simmons,” he adds, rather pointlessly.

Jemma doesn’t stop to wonder why she is disappointed. Instead she frowns.

“Wait! You have yet to tell me your name!”

“And you’ve yet to tell me yours,” he counters, waving off at some figures down the other end of the bustling platform. “You haven’t guessed correctly, so I can’t tell you.”

Jemma gapes; takes an abrupt step forward, suitcase swinging. “But I’ll never know!”

But Fitz only laughs, waves, and disappears into the crowd, and she is left with a million questions and a spin to her thoughts. When she tells her grandfather about the curly-haired boy and the  worrying thudding of her heart, he offers no help at all, instead chuckling and slipping his hand into her grandmother’s. And while she generally adores her grandparents, they didn’t answer her question, nor does she believe in love, and so she spends the whole car ride sulking.

And later, curled up in the soft cotton of her bed, she poises her pen upon paper and thinks. And then, she writes.

 _Dear Diary,  
_ _Today I met a boy..._

 

 

 

**_two_.**

 

She is sixteen, waiting patiently to board the train to her grandparent’s house for a particularly uneventful winter. So one might be able to imagine her surprise when a pair of familiar blue eyes widen at her from the window of the train pulling in.

She is polite, naturally, but Jemma Simmons is also efficient, so she manages to find the right compartment in record time, shutting the door and throwing herself in the seat across from him rather breathlessly. (And rather ungracefully, but Eileen Simmons has long since given up on grace for her sister, ever since discovering that the younger would much rather curl up with a book than become a socialite.)

“It’s you again,” she declares, inspecting him through her eyelashes.

“So it is,” Fitz responds, looking equally suspicious.

“I’m beginning to think that Uncle Philip _has_ sent you. Although,” Jemma considers, eyeing him thoughtfully, “I’m sure he would have picked someone a little older. And perhaps of a little more responsibility. And most _definitely_ not of your gender.”

He frowns. “What’s wrong with my gender?”

“Oh, nothing, really. Uncle Philip is just very protective. Ever since my sixteenth birthday he’s been odd about the whole situation. He won’t even let me talk to Lance any more, and it’s clear that he’s madly in love with Barbara. ‘Course, she doesn’t know it.”

“ _Right_.”

Jemma pulls a face, eager to explain more at his confused expression. “It’s like a love story, you see?”

“I don’t, but carry on.”

“Well,” she huffs, “it’s rather obvious, actually. Lance Hunter is in love with Barbara Morse. He stares for far longer than socially appropriate, and she doesn’t seem to mind—or notice—in the slightest. He talks about her far more than he should, which would be rather irritating if it weren’t so terribly endearing, and I’m _fairly_ certain he’s either extremely happy or extremely angry whenever she’s around. There’s no in-between. It’s romance.”

Fitz pauses for a moment, studying the floor, and then he glances at her curiously. “You’re a romantic, then?”

“Oh, no,” says Jemma with a wrinkle of her nose. “Well. Technically, I suppose I am. But only for very certain people. People like Lance and Barbara. People like my grandparents. People like.. well, they’re the only examples I’ve got, really.”

“What about your parents?” asks Fitz, all piqued interest and wonder.

Jemma shrugs; looks down at her lap. “My mother is ill. My father pays more attention to my sister’s marriage than to his own wife. I used to think Melinda and Andrew had a fairytale ending, but something changed ever since their trip abroad.”

“Abroad?” Fitz’s eyes widen in interest, and she’s unsure if he’s intentionally changing the subject or if he’s genuinely been interested by the topic. “Did they take an aeroplane?”

Jemma nods eagerly anyway. “They did!” Which then spiels off into a conversation about Imperial Airlines, which turns into family holidays, which turns into tiny little pieces of information that she picks up about Fitz. His mum is lactose intolerant while meanwhile he likes to eat anything under the sun, he’s made a fast friend in Mr. Mackenzie's son Alphonso, he prefers brunettes to blondes (but gingers above all else), he doesn’t believe in having a favourite colour, and he has never been kissed by anyone other than his mother.

When that last particular fact slips out in conversation, it’s with a small snort of embarrassment and a duck of his head, and she crosses her legs and smiles over at him, and they are both rather surprised when she doesn’t take the opportunity to make a jab at him.

“That’s sweet,” she says instead, “that you love your mother like that.”

His ears turn pink, he stares at her curiously for a moment, and then; “Is your name Jasmine? You look like a Jasmine.”

She scrunches up her features. “Do I really?”

He concedes no, somewhat sheepishly, and before she knows it they’ve spiralled through so many topics of conversation she can barely remember them all, until they’re suddenly pulling up at the train station, and for the first time, Jemma wishes the train ride were just a bit longer.

 

 

 

“Aren’t you ever going to tell me your name?” she asks, as she follows him out into the station.

“Will you ever tell me yours?” he counters, and she hides her smile behind her notebook. They pause for a moment, still in a sea of bustling men and women, young and elderly, and she plucks up a whole lot of courage in approximately 2.3 seconds.

“You should give me your address.”

His eyes widen. “Pardon?”

She winces—perhaps her phrasing could have been better. “For letters. Only if you’d like to, of course, but I.. I may have stumbled upon the realisation that perhaps talking to you isn’t the _worst_ way to pass the time.”

He grins then, wide and honest and oh dear, _smug_. “Really?”

She frowns at him. “I’m about to retract my offer.”

His hand extends out almost immediately. “Hand me your notebook, then. I’ll write it in the back.”

Jemma pauses for a split second, thinks about the secure details in her notebook, and promptly tears a page out to hand to him.

“What secrets have you got in there?” he asks curiously, scribbling on the given piece of paper.

“Who says I’ve got secrets?” She raises an eyebrow.

He hands the note back to her. “Everybody’s got secrets.”

“Not me.”

He gives her a disbelieving look, offers her a small smile, and then waves, almost shyly. “I’ll see you around, Miss Simmons.”

Jemma has to try hard to school her features into a neutral expression.

“And you too, Mr. Fitz.”

And later:

 

> _Dear L. Fitz,  
> _ _I do hope that you’ve given me the right address. Otherwise I think that this would be rather embarrassing.  
> _ _It’s Simmons. Upon writing this letter, I’ve come upon the realisation that it’s always you who seems to initiate the best of our conversations. Not that you should let that get to your head, mind you. Either way, I suppose I had better end this here. Regrettably, I’ve never been the best at socialising. Perhaps I ought to ask my sister for some help.  
> _ _Sincerely,  
> _ _Simmons  
> _ _P.S: please do tell me your name. I’m almost at my wits end with you. Is it Lysander?_

 

And even _later_ than that:

 

> _Dear J. Simmons,  
> _ _I see you’ve managed to read my atrocious handwriting. I didn’t know you could read. (That was a joke, by the way.)  
> _ _I’m not much good at socialising either, to be honest. I don’t have many friends. Just a few—Skye, and Mack, and Triplett. They’re odd names, I know. Not quite as odd as my friends, though.  
> _ _I don’t think you should take lessons from your sister. From what I’ve heard, she doesn’t sound very nice (no offence). Besides, I think you’re just fine at socialising. After all, you’ve gotten along with me, haven’t you? I’ve been told I’m very hard to please._   
>  _From,  
> _ _Fitz  
> _ _P.S: do you have a dictionary depicting the worst names in the world? No, my name is decidedly_ not  _Lysander. How about Julia?_

 

 

 

**_three._ **

 

> _Dear Simmons,  
> _ _My mum’s much better now. Thanks for recommending Dr. Campbell. He’s nice—even if he did give us a bit of a shock, turning up at the doorstep like that. I think Skye fancied him a little, which was about as horrible as it sounds.  
> _ _Speaking of Skye, she’s been dreadful lately. Keeps blowing kisses whenever I speak about you, or write to you. She thinks we’re romantically involved. Which we’re not! I made that very clear to her. Wouldn't want Skye getting the wrong idea. Or anything. Anyway, tell me about your book. Have you decided what colour Peggy’s eyes are yet, or are you still debating between sea blue and charcoal grey? (Both are equally ridiculous, by the way. Brown eyes are obviously more appealing.)  
> _ _Fitz  
> _ _P.S. Janet? Jane? Janice?_

 

Jemma is seventeen now, and trying to convince herself that she’s not excited for her yearly meeting with the boy on the train. Which she’s not. Excited, she means. Who could ever possibly be excited to meet L. Fitz?

And this time, she’s properly determined to learn his name.

Everything feels decidedly _easy_ when she slides into their usual compartment, and he’s already there and waiting for her, grinning with a notepad on his lap and a pencil in the other. She brightens in interest.

“Have you taken up writing?”

Fitz wrinkles his nose. “No. Sorry. I’m drawing. You can have a look, if you want.”

Jemma pauses to drop her bags and shed her coat, hesitating for the briefest of seconds before dropping next to Fitz. It feels odd, being on this side of the room instead of sitting across from him as per usual, but there’s nothing entirely _bad_ about sitting next to him and leaning over his shoulder to peer at his artwork.

There’s nothing entirely _good_ about it either, she reminds herself for good measure.

“What are you drawing?” she inquires.

“My dog, Sheila,” he explains, holding up his notebook almost shyly. She studies it, notes the care he’s poured into the delicate portrait, and nods.

“It’s beautiful.”

He glances back down, cheeks slightly pink. “Thanks.”

 

 

 

Fitz is waving his hands, talking about something he’s passionate about with an excited smile on his face. She’s never been good at reading mannerisms, but everything Fitz feels is displayed in all of his movements, in every feature of his face. He’s incredibly easy to read, and yet he looks totally different this close to him. She wonders if it might still be as easy to read him if she retreats back to her side of the compartment. The only boys she’s ever sat this close to have been Lance and her father.

“Tell me about her,” she blurts out, and he stops abruptly.

“Were you even listening to me?”

“I.. No,” she admits. “I was just.. Sorry, just, your friend. Skye. You talk about her a lot. Tell me about her.”

Fitz frowns and lowers his notebook. “You want to know about Skye?”

“Yes,” she nods, even as her mind’s warring against her for inexplicably unknown reasons.

“Well, she’s my best friend…” he starts off, and the next period of the journey is spent learning all about Fitz’s elusive best friend. She’s pretty, judging by his hastily drawn portrait of her, and intelligent, judging by what schooling she’s had, and sociable, given the various partners he’s described for her. And, having been given all these facts, Jemma is forced to evaluate that Skye is everything she is not.

And that’s okay, it really is, except—

“Do you love her?” she interrupts for the second time that day, and to her surprise, Fitz laughs.

“Everyone loves Skye.”

“But do _you_ love her?” she presses.

He pauses, eyebrows furrowed. “‘Course I do. She’s my best friend.”

“Right. Of course.” Jemma returns to her notebook without a further word, and after a few moments of doubtful silence, Fitz does too.

 

> _Fitz,  
> _ _I’ve been thinking about my story. You know, the one I was describing to you on the train. I’ve thought about what you said, how you reckoned Margaret Carter was a bit of a mouthful. I think you might be right. (Oh, I can see your smug expression even now.) I’ve decided to label her as Peggy. Snappy enough?  
> _ _You said you don’t mind the ending. You claim that the ideas are all over the place. I think this is really just your subtle way of telling me you don’t much care for my ending. I know you, Fitz. You’re a fool for a happy ending. Most people are.  
> _ _But I think my decision to kill off Steve Rogers is the right one. Peggy is very strong. I don’t want her development to be ruined by a romance story.  
> _ _I’ve enclosed the first draft into the envelope. Tell me what you think of it._   
>  _Simmons.  
> _ _P.S. Perhaps your name is Lincoln?_


	2. the middle (or; a series of unfortunate accidents leading to love confessions)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two strangers wind up getting jealous, sharing a bed, and exchanging diaries. (Also more than that, but.. that comes later.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I got a bit carried away and now there's three chapters instead of two. Hopefully you can put up with me for another instalment of these dorks <3

_**four.** _

 

> _Simmons,  
>  _ _Remember when I told you about Skye? Well, I have good news. Her last foster home went south so the Mackenzie’s have offered to take her in. She’ll be coming on the train, so you can finally have the chance to meet her.  
>  _ _Please don’t scare her away with your writing talk. I’d like you to be friends.  
>  _ _Fitz_  
>  _P.S. I’m running out of names! Jolinda, perhap_ s?

 

At eighteen years old Jemma boards the train with hesitance, thinking of the letter that lies abandoned on her dressing table.

Their usual compartment is open (by now the conductor knows to save it for them, flashing her a knowing smile and a cheeky wink as she steps in), and before she can even blink there’s a whirl of brown hair hurling into her arms.

“You must be Simmons! I’ve heard so much about you, you sound so brilliant! I really must get to know you properly myself—it’s very hard to impress Fitz, you know.”

When Jemma can finally extract herself, she’s met with a beaming girl, very similar to Fitz’s sketches, all pretty-faced and charming natured, with a mischievous glint on her eye and an odd accent to her words.

“You must be Skye,” she says politely (but with a smile; Skye seems to be infectious).

“I told you she was coming on the train, didn't I?” a voice says nervously, and Jemma glances at him for inspection (as she does every year, looking for the minute changes). He still looks mostly the same, boyish and clean-shaven (she’s knows his struggle to grow facial hair in great descriptive detail), but this year he seems to have filled out, grown out of his lankiness. He seems more confident this time too, although she supposes that has all to do with Skye.

“You did,” Jemma smiles, careful to keep her words and mannerisms stiffly polite as she lowers herself into a seat. “I hear you’re staying with the Mackenzie’s this year, Skye?”

The other girl lights up. “Yes! They’re very kind, offering me a place to stay..”

And as Skye talks, and Jemma listens, she finds it harder and harder to dislike the girl, even though there's an odd clench in her stomach. Snippets of conversation keep flying back to her, things such as _‘I prefer brunettes to blondes’_ and _‘brown eyes are far more appealing’_ , and it strikes her right there and then, sitting on a train on the way to her grandparents.

Fitz has feelings for Skye. That much is obvious. But whether he is aware of it himself…

“Simmons?”

Jemma jumps. “Sorry. What were you saying again?”

 

 

 

Somewhere along the trip, Skye pops out of the compartment to ‘chat up some people’ as she calls it, and Jemma is left with Fitz to speculate. How does one know they are in love, she wonders. Surely it can't be like on the novels, with racing hearts and butterflies in stomachs and dramatic confessions in pouring rain. And surely witnesses of the Great Love shouldn't feel sick to their stomach, as she does. Something must be the matter with her.

“Simmons,” Fitz says abruptly.

Jemma glances at him, warily. “Yes, Fitz?”

“Is everything alright? With you, I mean?” he asks, wringing his hands. “You’ve been.. polite all morning. Not that that’s _bad_ , it’s just… not like you.”

She peers out the window for a moment, and then back at him. She feels an irrational irritation at him she can’t describe, nor discern. She should be _happy_. Skye is really quite lovely.

“My sister’s pregnant,” she says finally, and it _is_ an explanation (just not the right one).

Fitz smiles in surprise. “Congratulations, Auntie Simmons. That’s great.”

“It is,” she concedes, “except we’re running out of money. Her husband was recently fired and our mother’s health is pulling money away like quicksand.”

Jemma takes a deep breath even as Fitz is leaning forward, eyes crinkles in concern. “What are you going to do?”

She glances down and fiddles with the hem of her dress. “A friend of mine—William Daniels. He told me he had feelings for me the other day. He’s.. He’s very rich.”

Jemma doesn't dare to look up, but Fitz's voice is oddly flat when he speaks next.

“Do you love him?”

“I don't know,” she admits. “I don't believe in love, you know that. And I'm not—I can't imagine settling down with him. But I think I _could_ do it; he’s nice enough, and he's very clever. His father is a book publisher, and my family needs the money.” Her voice dips softer. “It would be very convenient.”

“Does your dad know?” Fitz asks quietly.

Jemma shakes her head. “No. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.”

There's a sudden creak, and before she can register it Fitz is suddenly sitting next to her, hand on her knee.

“Well.. Do you want to marry him?”

Jemma glances up at him then, notes the concern in those blue eyes, the downturns of his mouth, the creases in his forehead.

“No,” she says, and she's not sure what compels her to say it, but she adds, “and I’m not going to.”

And she's not even surprised when he turns and folds her into a tight hug.

 

 

 

Skye returns some time later, after Jemma’s collected herself and Fitz has retreated to his side of the compartment, bearing a wicked grin and a twinkle in her eyes.

“Simmons!” she cheers, bouncing forward and taking her by the arm. “You have to come with me—I’ve met a crowd of gorgeous boys and I can hardly be expected to charm them all by myself.”

Jemma laughs and allows herself to be pulled along. As they exit, she catches a glimpse of Fitz, jaw clenched and clutching his book so tightly his knuckles have turned white. She thinks back to the collection of romance novels pinched from her sister, and notes that this must be a sign of jealousy, throwing a sidelong glance at Skye and feeling that odd stir in her gut again.

“The part about the boys was true, but really I just wanted a chance to talk to you without Fitz,” Skye admits, and Jemma's laugh rings through the air.

“I’m all ears,” she promises, as Skye loops her arms through hers, holding the walls for balance as the carriage sways. “Boys really are quite tiresome.”

“Not all of them,” Skye corrects, eyeing her.

“No, not Fitz,” Jemma agrees, and much to her bewilderment Skye lights up, a knowing glint in her eye.

“I was talking about Antoine. Trust me, doll, Fitz is intolerable.”

A surge of affection rises for Skye. “You can call me Jemma, if you’d like.”

Skye brightens. “Jemma! Oh, Fitz is going to be so mad that I know your name,” she crows. “He’s always complaining, Simmons this, Simmons that. It's quite sweet, you know. He looks forward to this train journey every year. He’d never admit it, of course, but a girl always knows.”

Jemma flushes prettily, gazing down at her shoes.

“I think you’re probably wrong, Skye."

The other girl only smiles, winks, and tugs her down the carriage.

“A girl is never wrong, either,” she giggles, and Jemma can't help but return the favour in bemusement.

 

> _Fitz,  
>  _ _Your friend is lovely. So lovely, in fact, that I wonder how you came to be friends with her at all! If she's still staying with you, like I recall, tell her I say hello.  
>  _ _There’s news. Well, sort of, at any rate. Poor Melinda Garner’s—well, May now, I suppose—husband passed away. I was terribly sad to hear of it, Andrew was always nice to me. At any rate, Melinda now has bucketfuls of wealth at her disposal, and she's donated it to us, so out money problems have gone away for the moment. I also found out that Melinda is a publisher—she’s even agreed to take a look at my novels. I think working helps her to grieve.  
>  _ _Do you remember William Daniels? Well, I turned him down. He was very kind about it, but he seems to have the impression that I’m in love with you. I hope it's alright that I just let him believe it, it seemed easier than trying to explain everything.  
>  _ _Simmons_  
>  _P.S. Liam Fitz has a nice enough ring. Is it that?_

 

 

 

_**five.** _

 

> _Fitz,  
>  _ _You weren’t on the train this year. Which is fine, obviously, of course, I was just worried. Is everything alright? Has something come up?  
>  _ _(Did you miss the train, you insufferable idiot?)  
>  _ _Please do reply when you have the time._  
>  Jemma

 

Nineteen years old and still carrying a worn leather notebook around with her everywhere she goes, she raps on the door nervously. There’s a small pause as she waits, and she fingers the letter tucked into her satchel.

 

> _Jemma,  
>  _ _It’s Skye—as I’m positive you can tell by my horrible writing.  
>  _ _No need to worry, Fitz hasn’t been avoiding you, nor did he miss the train. He’s fallen sick.  
>  _ _It’s not fatal, don’t worry! Dr. Campbell (he is certainly very pretty—unfortunately I think I’ve already found a soulmate in Antoine) says that it’s not terribly serious, but Fitz has been holed up in bed for several days, getting grumpier by the minute and snapping at everyone who passes by. In fact, I think the only time he’s stopped grumbling is when he read your letter—the grump actually smiled, believe it or not!  
>  _ _I’ve no doubt you’ll receive a letter from him shortly detailing a perfectly reasonable (and untrue) excuse as to why he’s absent, but what he doesn’t know is that I stole this letter while he was sleeping (as a tip for the future; he snores) and now I’m writing this. To you. Which you’ve probably already gathered, seeing as I just explained.. Anyway.  
>  _ _I’ve enclosed the address down below. Pop around whenever you please. And don’t go on about intruding—we’re all sick of his complaints at this point. I think he’s sour he missed his train_ _date_ _appointment with you.  
>  _ _Beggingly,  
>  _ _Skye_  
>  _P.S. I’m fairly certain you’re sweet enough to give him cavities, but you’d better bring some shortbread. Just in case._

 

And sure enough, a moment later Skye is beaming at her from through the doorway, crashing into Jemma in a whirl of brown hair and wide grins.

“I knew you’d come! Didn’t I tell you she’d come?” Skye says animatedly, and a handsome man (with impeccable facial hair, if she’s going to be completely honest) appears into sight. “Heroes can’t resist saving their sidekicks-slash-love interests.”

Jemma blinks, rapidly taken aback (and blushing as the words take on a sharper focus), and the man outstretches his hand.

“Antoine Triplett. Don’t mind her. She’s been into action novels recently. Nice to meet you, Jemma.”

She shakes the offered hand, bemused as Skye practically drags her inside and takes her bags from her, closing the door in a whirl of delight. Later, she’ll wonder how it is everyone knows who she is, but for now she smiles politely

“I bought shortbread,” she says sheepishly, unfurling the packet, and when Triplett steals it away she suspects that it’s not Fitz who wanted the extra sugar.

“He’s upstairs,” Skye explains, pulling her up said stairs and depositing her in front of the door.

Jemma blinks. “Do I—”

“Fitz!” Skye yells, knocking on the door. “Someone here to see you!” She winks at Jemma and then promptly vanishes, leaving her to tentatively open the door and edge inside.

Fitz is curled up in a mess of lumpy cushions and blankets, curls ruffled beyond belief. He looks too pale and there’s lines under his eyes, but thankfully his eyes are the same blue as always. He glances up from his book just as she enters, and his eyes widen immediately, a rosy blush that looks out of sorts compared to his pasty complexion blossoms on his features.

“ _Simmons_?”

For some reason she feels shy, which is odd, because Jemma Simmons is _never_ shy. “I did bring shortbread,” she says, “but they were taken from me before I could bring them as back-up plan.”

Fitz’s head falls back into the pillow, a barely muffled groan spilling forth. “I _told_ Skye not to invite you—”

“Oh, I can.. I can go if you’d like—”

“No!” he corrects so suddenly that she jumps. “I just mean—” He pauses, takes a small breath, and then looks down at his covers. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Jemma heaves a sigh of relief and tugs at her dress. “If that’s what you’re worried about, don’t. It’s hardly as if you could get any pastier.”

“Hey!”

“I’m joking,” she assures him. “Mostly. Are you infectious, or..?”

Shaking his head, Fitz pats his bed, and Jemma drops her bags on the floor and settles on the edge of his bed. He grins up at her, and she suddenly feels the need to open the windows, because is it her or is it suddenly stuffy in here?

“How have you been?” she asks gently, reaching forward to brush a stray curl away from his forehead (purely because the symmetry is bugging her, of course).

“Sick,” he says wryly, eyes following her movements.

“And a menace, according to Skye,” she teases, laughing at his embarrassed expression as he burrows deeper into the covers.

“Go on then, what embarrassment has she thrown me in for now?”

Jemma thinks about the far too many unsubtle hints Skye littered through her letter alluding to the fact that Fitz missed her, and she smiles and reaches to pat his hand.

“I think all of your friends are fed up with you. Also, apparently you snore.”

He groans, and she’s rather confused about the warmth that suddenly spreads through her.

 

 

 

“Feeling any better?” Jemma asks once their laughs have died down (she can’t even remember what was so funny in the first place). She winds around the various scattered books and sketchpads to set the empty tray of food on the bedside table.

“Yes, now that I’ve eaten,” he sighs happily, and she rolls her eyes.

“You’re a bottomless pit. And so is your room; look at this!”

She sets about tidying his room up as he returns to a sketchpad and starts to draw. The room is filled with silence except for the scratching of his pencil across paper, but it’s comforting, and she’s almost slightly disappointed when he speaks again.

“You should read me something.”

She pauses; flashes him a curious look. “Read you something?”

“Yes. Not something of mine, I’ve read them all a million times,” he says hastily as she moves to grab a book, and when she raises her eyebrows he looks slightly sheepish. “Something of yours, maybe? Your diary? I know you bring that everywhere with you.”

“Not—Not my diary,” she says quickly. “But I bought the latest draft of Agent Carter, if you want to give me some tips?”

Fitz nods, and as she delves through her bag, he asks, “What happened to having no secrets?”

“I’m surprised you still remember that. I don’t have secrets, nor do I write them in a diary,” she amends. “Just some truths that I would rather go unshared.”

Jemma glances up, and she’s thrown aback by the lazy, soft smile he’s giving her. Fitz has many different smiles, she’s deduced. Cheeky, smug, sarcastic, earnest, genuine, she’s seen them all, knows them like the back of her hand. And yet.. this smile is something different.

She fumbles and drops her book, sinking to the floor to collect it with a series of coughs, and when she looks up, the smile is replaced by amused concern.

 

 

 

The ceiling is unfamiliar, and she is deliciously warm, remnants of blissful dreams slowly fading away in lieu of waking, and...

Wait, _the ceiling is unfamiliar_ —

“Oh!” There’s a loud, familiar exclamation, and Jemma shoots up to see Skye blinking at her from the door, wide-eyed but smirking.

Jemma glances beside her to see Fitz, fast asleep, hand slipping from where it was curled around her waist, legs still intertwined with hers, and she jolts, leaping out of the bed and straightening her dress.

“I—I must have fallen asleep,” she splutters, bright red and searching frantically for her shoes. “We were up talking very late last night—”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Skye smirks.

Fitz stirs then, grumbling and wiping saliva away from his mouth (just like that first day they met, she remembers). “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” she squeaks.

“ _Something_ ,” Skye says, amused, as Jemma grabs her notebook and flees the scene.

“ _Surely_ you must be feeling better now,” she can hear Skye comment, entirely too much glee in her voice.

 

 

 

_**six.** _

 

> _Daisy,  
>  _ _I’m so happy for you. You deserve this. You really do. And I'm sure your fiance thinks so, judging by how he's been gazing at you all month (actually, you two need to stop. I feel the need to be violently sick whenever you two forget I'm in the room. Which is quite a lot. Worryingly a lot. For the sake of my health.)  
>  _ _So, I’m about to admit something that I’m most likely going to regret, so the teasing has to kept to a minimal, alright?  
>  _ _I think I do like her. In a non-platonic fashion, that is. (Don’t laugh, I can sense your laughter!) Actually, I’ve known for a while now. I think I’ve mostly just been afraid. In all those romance novels you like to read aloud, it all seems so easy. They confess their love for each other, and all that stands in the way is their families, or wealth, or something else equally ridiculous. And none of them are friends to begin with. All of those novels start with flirting or colliding in the rain or an instant attraction that makes it easy to inevitably confess their feelings for them.  
>  _ _No story ever instructs me on how to confess a close friend, to a girl who I met when I was still growing into my limbs and tripping over the bed every morning. (Again, I can feel the laughter being directed at me!) No book ever helps me to figure out if said girl returns the feelings or not. And, most importantly, no romance novel ever talks about the tragedy that occurs after said girl declines his affections—see, I can’t even say her name, let alone admit my feelings. I would much rather be doomed to a sentence of friendship than to have her out of my life forever, I think.  
>  _ _Maybe I need to borrow one of your romance novels. For studying purposes. Although I think I’d prefer the innocent ones on your shelf, as opposed to the scarlet ones hidden under your bed. (Don’t think I don’t know, Daisy.)  
>  _ _Fitz_  
>  _P.S. I have a feeling I’m going to regret sending this letter. Probably. Most definitely. If you could kindly burn this letter when you’ve finished reading it. No framing, okay? I mean it! (Oh lord, this is going to be framed and hung in your house, isn’t it? What have I done.)_

 

Jemma steps into the compartment with a plastic smile and a heavy heart. The letter in her bag, carefully resealed and tucked away, feels like a million tonnes, but it’s not as bad as her mind, which hasn’t stopped spinning ever since she read said letter three nights ago with a stone lodged in her stomach.

And it distresses her, because she shouldn’t _care_ whom Fitz is in love with, shouldn’t care that he’s written a beautiful confession worthy of any romance novelist for a girl. What she should care about, what she _does_ care about, is that Skye will never return his affections. She’s too besotted with Antoine, that much anyone can see—except Fitz, apparently. And that’s the only reason she cares, the only reason she is so upset, _truly_ . Or at least the only one she will accept, because love is a fickle thing; it doesn’t _exist_ for girls like Jemma Simmons.

“Simmons,” Fitz says, his face lighting up. “You’ll never guess what happened!”

Jemma smiles at him. “What happened, Fitz?”

“Have you ever heard of Audrey Nathan?”

“Audrey? I… no,” she admits, scrunching up her nose. “Oh, wait! She used to date Uncle Philip, I’m certain.”

“Really?” Fitz blinks. “It’s a small world, I suppose.”

It’s moments like these that make her stomach do a funny lurch; when his eyes are wide in wonder and they don’t ever glance away. She must be getting quite ill, she thinks, peering at him from over her notebook with flushed cheeks.

“It is,” she agrees. “What happened with her?”

He jumps, like he’s just forgotten what they’ve been talking about. “Oh! Um, well, she’s an illustrator. And she saw my art, and she said she was very interested in working with me and—” He exhales, eyes bright in excitement. “She offered me a job.”

“Fitz! Fitz, that’s… that’s brilliant!” she beams, resisting the urge to fly across at him and wrap her arms around his neck. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, you dolt?”

“I..” He rubs his neck. “I wanted to tell you in person. Also.. I may have mentioned you to her, how you’re planning on publishing your very first book with Melinda May, and I was—well, I mean, we were thinking.. If you wanted.. I could illustrate the cover?”

And this time, she really _does_ lurch across the compartment to hug him tightly.

“There’s nothing I would like more,” she tells him proudly. “Tell me all about it.”

 

 

 

“It’s good,” Fitz says, closing the notebook and handing it over with a smile that does funny things to her brain.

“I know it is,” she retorts smugly, but her grin is still bashful and her blush is still pink. She shoves the notebook into her bag, where it sits snugly beside three other books of the same variety: scrawled with ideas and plans and new story ideas and old character voices.

“I don’t know where you get the inspiration from,” he continues admiringly, and she shrugs.

“Most of it’s from my imagination, some of it is from other books, a little bit is just from the world. My world, how I see it, how I live it.”

“I think that’s beautiful,” Fitz says, and there’s something soft behind his smile that makes her flustered, so they sit in silence for a long moment.

Normally silence is good; silence allows her to think, to plot, to expand, but on this particular day on this particular train with this particular boy— _man,_ really—the silence is terrible. Because her mind keeps drifting to the odd feelings that occur whenever L. Fitz smiles at her, or the odd clench in her gut when she thinks about the letter carefully slotted into her bag. So she thinks, and then Jemma does something uncharacteristic; she acts _without_ thinking.

“Fitz, I really think you should—”

But she cuts herself off, because at the same precise time Fitz has asked, “Is your name Jenna?”

Jemma inhales sharply. “S—Sorry?”

“Jenna,” Fitz says cautiously. “Is that your name?”

“No. No, it’s not,” she answers, but the chance is gone, the moment is over, and she contents herself to staring at the sprawled writing of her latest draft instead. Fictional worlds are so much easier.

 

 

 

The train pulls up, they spill out into the station along with everybody else, and Jemma is looking forward to a worry-free evening with her grandparents when there’s a grip on her arm and she whirls to see Fitz staring at her in doubt.

“Simmons—are you okay?”

“I—Yes, I’m perfectly fine, why would you think otherwise?”

He looks disbelieving. “Because you’ve been acting strange all day.”

“Look, _nothing_ is the matter, alright? I haven’t had much sleep, I just, I need to go.” She glances down, attempts to pull away, and when he realises he drops her arm like he’s been burnt, which only makes it hurt more.

“I’m just asking once, Simmons,” he pleads,  “and if you really don’t want to tell me I’ll never bring it up again, but if it was something I did or it was—”

“You should just tell Skye,” she blurts out. Fitz freezes, and suddenly the world becomes muted, _still_ , despite being in the middle of a thriving train station.

“I— _what_?”

Jemma takes a deep breath; there’s no going back now. “Um—Skye. You should.. You should tell her how you feel about her.”

“Simmons, I don’t—”

“I got your letter. The one you meant to send to, um, Daisy. You must have mixed up the labels or something because I ended up receiving her one instead. And it was wrong, and I shouldn’t have, but I’ve always been obsessively curious and I just—I read it. And I read your love confession, and it was beautiful, truly, but I just think it would be much better if you told Skye.”

Fitz shakes his head slowly. “You.. You think I’m in love with Skye?”

“I’m a writer, Fitz,” she laughs (she’s not bitter, she’s _not_ ), “I’ve learned to read between the lines. You talk about her incessantly, you prefer brunettes, you adore brown eyes, your favourite letter in the alphabet seems to be S, it all adds up!”

“I—Simmons, I’m not in love with Skye.” His tone has turned definite, but it’s not enough, it’s not _true_.

“Fitz, please—”

“I’m not in love with Skye because I’m already in love with you.”

She inhales sharply. If the world were still before it’s spinning now, dizzying colours and blurred shapes, deafening silence.  

“Please say something,” he says quietly.

“I.. I don’t.. But it doesn’t make any sense,” she manages.

“I never got the chance to mention it because I completely forgot when I saw you at the station, but Skye’s found her family. Her real family, that is. She’s decided to go by her birth name now. Daisy Johnson,” he explains quickly, like the faster he gets it out the quicker she’ll understand.

“You.. She.. But your letter..”

“It wasn’t about her,” he says in a quiet sort of acceptance. “It was about you.”

“But.” She swallows. “Me?”

He gives her a tiny smile. “Brunettes, brown eyes, the letter S… does any of this sound familiar to you?”

“I never thought..” she manages. He nods, glancing down at his feet.

“I know. I hid it for a long time. Even from myself. You were too.. too valuable to lose over something so silly. I thought it was just an infatuation. I thought it would go away.”

“But it hasn’t,” she asks.

“It hasn't. I understand if you don’t want to speak anymore, if you would like me to switch trains or—”

“No,” she says unexpectedly. Her mouth is dry. “Don’t do that.”

Fitz looks slightly hopeful, but more surprised. “Really? Even though you don’t feel the same?”

“I never said that,” she says hastily.

He creases his brow. “Then…”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I’m afraid of love.”

“You don’t have to be,” he says gently. “Not every romance ends in hurt.”  

“I care about you. A lot. More than I probably should,” she confesses. They stay silent for a beat, and then Fitz jumps when Jemma hurriedly roots through her bag. “I know I’m a writer, but I’m not good with words, so..”

She thrusts the object into his hands and he blinks.

“Your diary?”

“It was supposed to be about me. But then I met you on the train all those years ago and.. I don’t know, but the diary just.. It became about you. Read it. Please. If you want to.”

“I will,” he promises, clutching the book, slightly stunned.

“Do you.. Um, would you like your letter back?” she starts.

Fitz smiles, to her surprise. “No. You should keep it. It’s about you, after all.”

And that’s how they part that year, him with fledging hope and his hands clasped around her diary, and her with rosy cheeks as she dashes away.

 

> _Dear Fitz,  
>  _ _I realise that we haven’t spoken to each other for a while. Maybe it’s for the better, while we process this information. But I have decided to break this truce to update you in my writing.  
>  _ _Do you remember Agent Carter? Well, I’ve just finished the outlines for a sequel. I know you fought hard, but unfortunately Steve is not resurrected. But I’ve been thinking hard, and.. I’ve added in a new character. His name is Daniel Sousa. And I think he might be Peggy’s second shot.  
>  _ _I thought about what you said, and you’re right. A woman doesn’t need love to define her. But to have love would be awfully nice.  
>  _ _Sincerely,_  
>  _Simmons_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, tell me what you think!


	3. the end (or; a series of unfortunate promises jemma simmons fails to keep)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jemma Simmons breaks her promises, over and over (and over) again.

_**seven.** _

 

> _ Dear Jemma Simmons,  
>  _ _ You have cordially been invited to the Johnsons’ party, in honor of having found their long lost daughter, Daisy. Information should be located in the slip below—please wear your most formal attire.  
>  _ _ Sincerely,  
>  _ __ Calvin, Jiaying, and Daisy Johnson

 

“Jemma!”

She’s immediately barrelled over as soon as she arrives at the manor, although she supposes by this point that she isn’t really all that surprised. 

“Sk— _ Daisy _ ,” she laughs. “I’m really happy for you.”

Daisy snorts, beaming. “You wouldn't believe how many times I’ve heard that tonight. Come inside, I know a few people who are positively _dying_ to meet you.”  

“Well, I really do mean it,” she says earnestly, allowing Daisy to loop her arm through hers and lead her inside. 

“I know you do, Jemma.”

Jemma suddenly pulls to an abrupt stop, wringing her hands together. “Is.. Um, is Fitz here?”

“I _knew_ something happened between you two,” Daisy nods. “Fitz has been in an odd mood ever since the station.”

“It’s.. It’s complicated, truly.”

Daisy sighs. “That’s what they all say. It will turn out fine, you’ll see. Either way, you don’t have to speak to him if you don’t want to. It’s a party, there’s plenty of people for you to talk to. For one, you should interrogate Antoine for me. Don’t tell a soul, but I think he’a been planning a proposal.”

 

 

 

Jemma sits with Triplett, Mack and Uncle Philip at one of the tables in the corner, swirling an empty glass. Daisy had stepped off to get refills, but along the way been swept off for a dance by a handsome young man, and so they chat amicably instead.

“Looks like someone’s coming for you,” Triplett says with a knowing smile. 

Jemma glances up to see Fitz approaching their table nervously. She’s seen snippets of him throughout the evening, despite her best efforts, and he looks annoyingly handsome with his stubble and his suit. She almost misses the curls. 

“He’s probably coming for a conversation with Mack,” she says quickly.

Uncle Philip glowers from his end of the table. “He better be.”

Mack shakes his head. “He’s never been that nervous to talk to me before. We had a chat all of ten minutes ago.” 

Sure enough, Fitz comes to a stop right in front of her. Uncle Philip’s glare doesn't seem to help matters much.

“Miss Simmons,” Fitz says—the whole table collectively winces, “would you care for a dance?”

“She wouldn’t,” interjects Uncle Philip. 

“She  _ would _ ,” Jemma corrects, biting back a smile at Fitz’s ridiculously hopeful expression. “He’s just a boy, Uncle Phil. A pasty one, too. There are worse specimens to dance with.”

Her uncle sighs, but Fitz is beaming madly as she grabs his hand and pulls him out onto the dance floor. 

Jemma holds her breath, but soon they’ve slipped into an easy rhythm. There’s something strangely intoxicating about standing so close to Fitz, something that makes her quite dizzy. He smiles; he’s caught sight of her breathlessness. She reaches up to swat at him.

“ _ Don’t _ .”

“I didn’t do anything!” he protests even through the snort bubbling out of his lips.

“You know perfectly well what you’re doing,” she retorts, biting back a smile and instead focusing back on the matter at hand.

Fitz laughs, loud and clear, and she glances back up at him with a wry smile.

“I must admit that your dancing exceeds my expectations, Mr. Fitz.” 

He nods sagely. “It  _ should _ —I practised far too many hours this morning in preparation. 

“Did you really?” She blinks in surprise. 

“No,” he admits, “But I did ask Daisy to help me pick out a suit.”

“You look suitably dashing in it, too. Although I honestly can’t tell one suit from another.”

He beams, and she can tell in an instant that he is very clearly pleased. “If I had known that, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

There’s a small, light-hearted pause as they swirl around the dance floor, before Fitz’s grip loosens ever so slightly and she takes an anxious breath.

“Did you.. receive my letter?”

He nods. “I did.”

“And the journal?” she continues with bated breath. “You read it?”

“All of it.”

“Oh. And—And what did you think?”

“I think…” Fitz tilts his head, thinking. “Do you really mean all of it? All the things in there?” 

Jemma nods earnestly, lips curving into a gentle grin. “Most of it. I do remember raining a very colourful array of insults and curses on you in a paragraph or two.”

He scoffs. “More like a page or two.”

“I was an angry child.”

“Mmm, I get the impression.”

Jemma laughs, and in that moment, all the worries in the world seem to evaporate. “But yes. I did mean it. I still  _ do _ mean it. And I’m not scared anymore. What you said, back at the station, it was true. I don’t think you would ever hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he breathes, and she smiles.

“I know.”

Again, the world seems to spin to a halt as Fitz’s eyes flicker to her lips for the briefest of moments. Barely noticeable, but it’s enough to hitch her breath and leave her neck flushed. She can’t seem to look away as they come to a slow stop, stilling on the dance floor. His face inches closer towards hers, lips creeping closer, and her eyes flutter close— 

She presses gently on his chest seconds before contact, eyes flying open as Fitz is already stumbling back, a million different apologies spilling from his mouth.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“ _No_ , I just..” she races to correct him, swallowing rapidly.  “I didn’t want to do it  _ here _ , on the dance floor, in front of everybody.” 

“Oh.” The relief on his face is almost palpable. “Would you.. Do you want to grab a drink, then?”

“Naturally.” She beams at him and then they depart as she lingers by a table while Fitz braves the queue. She’s so lost in reliving their  _ almost _ -moment that she doesn't quite notice when a figure approaches.

“That looked very promising.”

Jemma jumps, and then grins widely. “Bobbi! What are you doing here?”

Bobbi shrugs. “I’m a friend of Daisy and Trip. Hunter’s here too, though he’s very likely drunk. I’ll have to go and pick up the pieces later.”

She intakes this new information with a thoughtful nod as she falls into a chair, Bobbi following suit. “You never said you knew them.”

“Never came up in conversation. Speaking of, looks like you just had an interesting one.” Bobbi raises her eyebrows. “Fitz getting you drinks?”

“You know Fitz as well?” she gapes.

Bobbi smiles slyly. “Met him through the Mackenzies. We used to visit every summer, I’d hang out with him and Alfie.”

“ _ Alf _ —You know, I think it’s better if I don’t ask.”

“You’re probably right.” Bobbi nods. “Also, avoiding the question. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Um.. It’s complicated,” Jemma tries, glancing down to fiddle with the hem of her dress. 

Bobbi shakes her head. “For a writer, you're awfully cliché. Also wrong. Nothing is complicated if you take the time to think about it. You, Jemma Simmons, over-complicate things.” She smiles. “It’s what makes you a brilliant author.”

Jemma smiles gratefully at her. “You’re kind.”

“I’m honest,” Bobbi corrects. “Good luck with Fitz, Jemma. I mean it. He’s a good kid.”

“Thank you,” she says, and she can spy Fitz heading over with the drinks in his hand. Bobbi follows her gaze and grins.

“It’s time for you to be brave now, Miss Simmons. Also,” Bobbi leans closer, a mischievous expression on her features, “I read the latest draft of your sequel. Don’t think I don’t know who you based Daniel Sousa off of.”

Then the blonde disappears, and Fitz is standing in her place blinking bemusedly. 

“What did Bobbi want?”

“ _ Barbara _ ,” Jemma says intentionally, blushing deep red, “is very annoying. Also very right, but I will have to spill these drinks on you if you ever tell her that.”

Fitz chuckles. “My lips are sealed.” He holds an arm out as a silent question, and she slips her arm through and takes a drink from him.

“Come on,” he says, tugging her along. “I know this brilliant spot for stargazing.”

 

 

  
  
“The Johnsons’ have a nice estate,” Jemma says admiringly, trying not to focus on the fact that their hands are laced together as he pulls her along.

“They do,” Fitz agrees. “Daisy deserves it. She’s been through a lot.”

They pull to a stop. Fitz’s special spot is really not anything spectacular. It’s _pretty_ , sure, with neatly kept grass and a wide expanse of starlit sky, but there’s nothing particularly amazing about it. In fact, she has the sneaking suspicion that he made it up, just for an excuse to pull them into the private. She doesn't say that, of course.

“Daisy is really quite remarkable, isn’t she?” Jemma asks quietly, glancing down at her shoes.

“She is,” Fitz admits. “But I’m not in love with her, Simmons.”

She smiles widely at him, pink tingeing her cheeks, and they sink down into the grand. The grass is a bit wet, and most likely ruining her new dress, but she can't quite bring herself to care.

“So,” she begins lightly. “How does this whole.. being in love thing work?”

Fitz smiles crookedly at her. “I’m not quite sure. But I think it would help if we knew each other’s names.”

Jemma stretches out, palms flat behind her, shoes kicked off and resting a few inches away. 

“You never guessed it,” she teases. “I can’t possibly tell you.” 

“I’ve run out of guesses,” he protests. His tie is wonky; whomever tied it did a terrible job—she's willing to bet it was him. “You must have cheated.”

“I don’t cheat,” she says matter-of-factly. 

“Well, you must have!”

“I didn’t! I don’t condone cheating. And I’m awful at lying.”

Fitz is silent for a moment, and then glances up to the sky, raising a hand to point. 

“See that constellation there?”

“Yes,” she says warily. “That’s Leo.”

“Yes, well," he rubs at his neck, "that also happens to be my name. Well actually it’s Leopold, strictly speaking.” 

“No it isn't.”

“It is,” he says earnestly. She shakes her head. 

“It can't be.”

“Why aren't you willing to believe me?”

“ _ Because _ ,” she leans forward to give him a hard shove, “Leopold is  _ far _ more ridiculous than Lawrence and Lysander and all the other family names you mocked!”

“Ow!” he moans, rubbing his arm. “I’m sorry! It's not my fault my mum had a brief moment of loopyness when naming me.”

She huffs. “That’s a horrible thing to say about your mother, Leopold.” A pause. “Is that what people normally call you? Leopold?” 

“Sometimes they call me Leo,” Fitz shrugs. “But mostly… it’s just Fitz.”

She groans, loudly, and he blinks at her in alarm.

“What? What’s wrong? What did I do?”

“You’ve been _cheating_ this entire time,” she accuses. “You should have had me guess your last name, as that’s the one you normally go by!”

“You didn't hand me a rule book when we started this,” he protests.

“I wasn’t sure you could read.”

“Oh, that is a cruel blow, Simmons.

She crosses her arms; stares him down. “Maybe it is.”

Fitz just grins cockily at her, a lazy sort of warmth in his eyes. “I’ve told you my name, now it’s your turn.”

Jemma raises her eyebrows at him. “Is it really?”

“Mhmm. Go on.”

“I’m not named after a constellation,” she warns.

He shrugs, gives her a cheesy smile. “No stars could contain you, Simmons.”

“What a delightfully cheesy thing to say,” she laughs, tearing her gaze away from the sky to finally face him. They’re closer than she anticipated; his shoulder grazes hers with every exhale, his eyes are a startling shade, and she smiles without quite meaning to.

“Jemma,” she says quietly. “It’s Jemma.”

And with that, their lips meet in a gentle kiss. It’s sweet and chaste; it’s the sort of kiss that Jemma would write, the sort of perfect moment that can only be captured underneath a sky full of stars, with the dew seeping into her dress and his hand creeping up into her hair.

When he finally pulls away, she’s smiling, her eyes still closed as her fingers slip down from his neck and land back in her lap.

“Jemma,” he says, like it’s the final piece of a long and arduous puzzle.

“Yes?” she asks sweetly.

“Let’s write a book together,” he offers, still slightly breathless. She leans in for another kiss.

“Okay.”

 

 

 

> **_Excerpt from the diary of Jemma Simmons, aged fifteen._ **
> 
> Dear Diary,  
> Today I met a boy. He was a very curious boy. There was drool dripping down his chin, and he tried to explain what drawing is to me. He won’t tell me his first name, which is rather insufferable. I don’t like him very much, which is alright, as I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.

 

 

> **_Excerpt from the diary of Jemma Simmons, aged sixteen._ **
> 
> Dear Diary,  
>  You won’t believe who I met on the train today. It was Fitz! What a coincidence. Grandfather would say that the wheels of fate are turning, but I know that a series of chain events and coincidences lead us to keep meeting on the train. I am a writer, but I don’t think I need to romanticise  everything .  
>  Also.. Fitz is not as unbearable as I was lead to believe. In fact.. I think he might even be quite nice. (Even if he does keep poking fun at my family’s history of naming.)

 

 

> **_Excerpt from the diary of Jemma Simmons, aged seventeen._ **   
> 
> 
> Dear Diary,  
>  Fitz loves his friends very much. He talks about them a lot. In his last letter, six of his sixteen sentences were about Skye. (I counted.) That is ⅜’s of his letter, which is awfully a lot for just one person. Not that I mind, of course. It’s very sweet.   
>  I wonder if anybody’s ever written about me in ⅜’s of their letter. I shouldn’t think so. 

 

 

> **_Excerpt from the diary of Jemma Simmons, aged eighteen._ **
> 
> I think I’ve finally begun to make sense of the curious emotion that is love. My grandfather loves my grandmother in the way that Lance Hunter loves Barbara Morse. Which, in its simplest term, is a lot. Requited. Easy. But then..  
>  But  _ then _ , Fitz loves Skye who loves Triplett who in turn loves Skye (as well), and Will loves me, and  _ I _ …   
>  Well. Perhaps I haven’t quite made sense of love after all.   
>  Speaking of Skye, I met her today. I can see why Fitz loves her. It would be impossible  _ not  _ to love her, I think. But what I  _ don’t  _ understand is why Fitz loves someone who doesn’t love him back. It all seems preposterous, really. Not that I have a monopoly on love.

 

 

> **_Excerpt from the diary of Jemma Simmons, aged eighteen (part two)._ **
> 
> [ Censored for excessive cursing, hurtful words, and ridiculous untruths. ]

 

 

> **Excerpt from the diary of Jemma Simmons, aged nineteen.**
> 
> Dear Diary,  
>  I really shouldn’t be writing right now. It’s the night, and I’m at Fitz’s home. He’s gone to have a shower, which is why I’m scribbling this out before he gets back.  
>  It’s curious, to care for someone so much that it physically hurts when they’re ill, isn’t it?   
>  I’m very knowledgeable. I can admit this to myself. But something about Fitz leaves my brain all scrambled. I have to  _ fight  _ for words, I have to battle for coherent thoughts, and on occasion, I have to use all my willpower not to  _ slap  _ the idiot. Fitz is either very, very bad, or very, very good. But the worst part is, I can’t quite discern which one it is. 

 

 

> _**Excerpt from the diary of Jemma Simmons, aged twenty (part one).** _
> 
> Dear Diary,  
>  Here’s the thing about timing.  
>  Most often, it is treacherous.   
>  I opened a letter today. It wasn’t meant for me, and perhaps this is what I get for meddling. An odd burning around my eyes, a sick feeling in my gut, a storm brewing in my stomach, my heart splintering.   
>  Perhaps I’m being a bit dramatic. But all of this is at least half true.  
>  I knew he was in love with her, of course. I just don’t think I’d ever realised just how  _ much _ . Fitz, who cannot be poetic in any sense. Fitz, who can barely string two sentences together using the Queen’s bloody English. Fitz, who has never so much as  _ mentioned  _ being in love with a girl (at least not intentionally, at any rate). Fitz, who has now constructed a letter that could perhaps rival Lance’s serenade. (Well, actually, the serenade was awful, but the thought is what counts.)   
>  Fitz is in love with Skye. There is something troubling about it that I cannot place. I don’t know if I can face him this year, I will admit.  
>  (But here’s the truth, for my diary and my diary alone. I promised myself that I would never fall in love, never do anything of the sort. I’ve always been terrible at keeping my promises.)

 

 

> **_Excerpt from the diary of Jemma Simmons, aged twenty (part two)._ **
> 
> Dear Diary,  
>  Today I met a man. He’s still a very curious man, that’s true, as I am currently watching him, Lance and Daisy clumsily draw people into their dance. And yes, he still drools. And maybe he  _ has  _ told me his first name, but that doesn’t make him any less insufferable. I think I like him very much, which is alright, as it looks like he’ll be sticking around for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal headcanon that these two end up making each other guess potential baby names in the same fashion. ("It starts with S, Fitz!") Also, a dog that's constantly wedging between them by the name of Cosmos would be great. But maybe that's just me.
> 
> I'm also perthshirekisses on Tumblr, too, so come be silly with me <3


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